Wednesday, April 01, 2009

 

The deadliest night out

I should have been working on my thesis yesterday, but JerseyGirl called me up and said that I had to go out with her.  I told her it was not a good time.  I'm handing in my thesis this week.

"Razzy, I have a surprise celebrity for you to meet.  And YOU HAVE TO COME.  I would tell you to skip your wedding for this.  You are going to cereally bug when you see who it is."

That was enough to pique my interest.  "Who is it?"

"I'm not telling.  But you are going to LOSE IT.  I can't wait to see your face.  You don't have a choice.  You are coming out for drinks."

"Okay, fine, I'm coming.  But seriously, who is it?  Is it R. Kelly?  I'm going to have a fucking heart attack if I have drinks with Kells.  Is it Lil' Kim?  Is it Lil' Wayne?!"  Now I was not only sold on coming, I was determined to find out who I was meeting so I didn't act like a total asshole.

"Not telling.  I'm going back to work.  Just dress classy, but show a little cleave."

"It's not anyone from the New York Yankees, is it?"  JerseyGirl is, unfortunately, a Yankees fan, so I worried that she might be bringing me to meet one of Satan's pinstriped minions just because I'm more into sports than most of our other girlfriends.

"I wouldn't pull strings so you could meet someone you hate!  It's not a Yankee.  But I'm not telling.  See you at 8 sharp at the Time Warner Center tomorrow."

So I spent every spare moment yesterday pestering JerseyGirl and all our friends to whom she disclosed this mystery guest's identity about the matter.  All I could ascertain was that it wasn't Chris Hansen or Geraldo.  I figured that it probably wasn't Belladonna, since JerseyGirl doesn't watch porn and wouldn't know who that was, and probably wouldn't be meeting with her and a bunch of cable news producers.  I also figured that it probably wasn't anyone from the cast of "Battlestar: Galactica," since she doesn't watch that, and I cried twice during the series finale neither do I.  Despite wishful thinking, I also didn't think R. Kelly was the type who would personally attend such a function.  And I knew Lil' Kim is currently in L.A. filming "Dancing With the Stars."  So I settled on the notion that I was going to be meeting Morrissey, only because I've had a hard-on for him since I was a moody baby dyke, I'm definitely more into him than any of our other friends, and he was in town this past week.

I was thus really excited, and got to the Time Warner Center a little early.  I decided I should eat something to calm my nerves, so I went to Whole Foods and got some fancy pizza.  I was still so wound up that I could barely concentrate on mocking the people next to me in the cafeteria who were clearly on a first date at WHOLE FUCKING FOODS via text to JerseyGirl.  Normally I have all sorts of scathing things to say about this unbelievably stupid practice, but all I could manage was a text reading "People who go on dates at Whole Foods are lame."  JerseyGirl replied, "I know, ew.  See you in 5."

So I went upstairs to meet her, and then we went to the bar.  Nobody was there.  "I'm meeting Morrissey, aren't I?"

"Razzy, SHUT UP.  I'm not telling you.  You'll see in a minute."

Then the special guests arrived.  Morrissey was not among them, but I did see a familiar face.  It was Captain Keith from the F/V Wizard on "Deadliest Catch!"  And then, behind him, like a hero of Valhalla in the flesh, came the shining, Nordic godlike countenance of ***CAPTAIN SIG HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN***!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I was speechless for a minute, before I advised him that once on MySpace he linked to my blog and declared me his .1 fan.  I was disappointed to learn that this wasn't actually him, but someone who runs his MySpace page for him, but who cares?  I was meeting Sig in person and that's way better than a MySpace comment any day.  He actually blushed when I told him that I once wrote that I was surprised he didn't melt the frozen sea spray off the Northwestern's rigging just by standing near it.  He recovered, ordered an Absolut and Coke (aka "Norwegian champagne") and proceeded to match my Johnnie Walkers drink for drink.

I chatted Keith and his wife up for a while, and they were both very nice people.  I learned that both Captain Keith and Sig think their wives have much more difficult jobs.  I was very pleased to see that fame hadn't gone to any of their heads, and they were really cool, down-to-earth people.  Sig was thrilled when I understood that "kukslikke" means "cocksucker" in Norwegian, and was impressed by my proficiency in swearing, which is at the advanced level of any given cowboy mining the Bering Sea for "red gold."  Sig thought it was hilarious that I went brunette because my Sarah Palin Halloween costume was so successful.  We commiserated about how lutefisk is gross, and I almost wept with joy when Sig told me that being a small girl wouldn't prohibit me from fishing myself.  "Jake Harris is scrawnier than you," he told me.  I didn't mention that I doubted I was tough enough to handle the extreme conditions or the frequent almost-dying part of the job.  And of course I took pictures.  This is what I look like when extremely happy on account of being flanked by two incredibly hot REAL MEN.  


At the end of the night, there was nobody left but myself, Sig, and his handlers, and Sig wanted to go to another bar.  I thought that was a capital idea.  He wanted to go to some Irish bar that he got into a fistfight in during his last visit, although he couldn't remember anything about it except that it was around the corner from where he stayed last time, and the owner's name was Mickey.  He finally called his brother Edgar (!!!!) to figure it out, and got the name.  Unfortunately, his handlers advised us that he had an early morning, and it was not a good idea.  So I just finished smoking the unfiltered Camel I bummed from Sig, and hopped in a cab so that I could go home and freak out about having just met Sig in person.  The Discovery Channel guy told me to call him today about going out tonight instead, so I've got my fingers crossed that I'll get to witness Sig brawling with some local riffraff tonight.  Or at least throw back a few more cocktails with him.  If not, hopefully I'll at least get to see him at "CatchCon," which appropriately enough is the afternoon before the annual Crab Feed that I attend at my high school.

And on that note, I better get off cloud fucking nine and get some work done so I can (maybe) go raise hell with Sig tonight.  

P.S. JerseyGirl, YOU FUCKING RULE!  MAJOR FRIEND POINTS!  *MAJOR!*

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:21 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, March 05, 2009

 

Some (un)cut

I've been skanking it up hard with the fellas since July 26th, 1995, and in that time I've gotten a lot of random dick under my belt, so to speak.  Although she used to be more of a relationship-type lady, my friend JerseyGirl has since caught up with me with a great deal of gusto.  In the course of her recent adventures, JerseyGirl managed to stumble across a phenomenon that you don't often encounter with native-born American fellas:
JerseyGirl: met this brit at brunch
Razzy: uh huh...
JerseyGirl: went back to my place
JerseyGirl: and did it
JerseyGirl: like 5x
Razzy: LOL
JerseyGirl: it was NUTS
JerseyGirl: BUT razzy
JerseyGirl: i was bugging
JerseyGirl: bc when he got naked
Razzy: let me guess...not circumcised
JerseyGirl: it was UNCIRCUMSIZED!!!
JerseyGirl: i was DYING
JerseyGirl: i was like "ewe"
JerseyGirl: he goes that's not very nice to say
JerseyGirl: i'm like sorry but it looks gross
Razzy: dude euros are always uncircumcised unless they're jewish
Razzy: i can't believe you said "ewe" about his D OUT LOUD!
JerseyGirl: haha
JerseyGirl: i know
JerseyGirl: but i was so wasted i didnt care
JerseyGirl: it was HUGE though
I likewise have never personally encountered an uncut schlong, probably because of my propensity for fucking red-blooded Americans and/or Jews.  I keep waiting for the day when I will stumble across one, because I'm intensely curious about it.  I've certainly seen pictures, so I doubt my response will be to say "ew" when I see that homeslice's weiner is wearing a turtleneck.  In fact, I remember this girl I knew in college was dating an uncut dude, and she showed me and a few other intensely curious girls photos of her inflating his foreskin.  I remember laughing hysterically because they were really some of the most absurdly ridiculous sex pictures I'd ever seen.  I also remember vowing that should I ever come across a honey with extra casing on his sausage I would promptly make like this bitch and blow it up like a balloon for humor value alone.  Combining goofy jokes and fellatio sounds like a win-win to me. 

JerseyGirl clearly got over her shock about this dude's foreskin because she subsequently planned a trip to England to go get more strange of the tea-and-crumpets variety in spite of the likelihood of encountering more peek-a-boo dick.  She was telling me about the new international mark she was wooing via Facebook, and I was encouraging her to whore us up proud.
Razzy: toss it up
Razzy: as i think they say in england
Razzy: i know "tosser" means "slut"
JerseyGirl: haha
JerseyGirl: i just emailed you his pic
Razzy: yeah he's cute
Razzy: although i'm getting MAJOR pencil dick vibes from him
Razzy: i think it's the 5 o'clock 'stache but NOT beard
Razzy: how tall is he?
JerseyGirl: no he's tall
JerseyGirl: i've touched it before
JerseyGirl: it's big
Razzy: well pencils can be long
Razzy: they're just skinny
Razzy: i call a long pencil a "cervical spear"
Razzy: i fucked a dude like that once, it felt like fucking a pap smear
JerseyGirl: well i'll let you know!
Razzy: please do!
JerseyGirl: although i dont think it's pencil
JerseyGirl: i have a good feeling
Razzy: i hope i'm wrong, i hate pencil
JerseyGirl: it's probably all skinned up though
JerseyGirl: nasty
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: well now you're an old pro with the uncut weiners
JerseyGirl: i know. it's so nast though
Upon her return from Merry Olde Englande, JerseyGirl was pleased to report that her man was a European rarity: not Jewish or Muslim and yet still trimmed.  I was a little disappointed, if only because I wanted to hear about JerseyGirl insulting the appearance of her partner's package as foreplay.  Now that she's back stateside, she dumped her original skinjob and has no future prospects from the United Kingdom or continental Europe in her sights, so that well of uncircumcized weiner follies has run dry.  So now I guess I'm going to have to go out and find some uncut dick of my own for amusement.  So take notice all you Razzyphiles of British, Australian, other European, or Americans with hippie parents extraction...for any fellas rocking Shar-pei schlongs, I'm currently enrolling subjects in my personal study.  Holler at your skank. 

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:09 AM 6 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, October 02, 2008

 

My night last night, by JerseyGirl

RAZZY Edit: This may look like it was posted by me, but is actually an e-mail I received last Friday morning from my friend JerseyGirl.  She swore up and down she wanted to turn this into a blog posting of her own, but has been so busy with work that she hasn't gotten a chance.  Plus, she's afraid to look at my website from work because her office is full of annoying snoops that read her computer over her shoulder and would maybe have a negative opinion of her professionalism if a picture of my tits popped up. Anyway, she asked me to retool her "high five me, bitches, because I'm a himalaya playa" e-mail as a post, which I'm only too glad to do since I've been seriously remiss in the useless bullshit production department this week. I wish I had a better excuse than lab is busting my balls...or it would be, if I had balls. You get the idea. Anyway, enjoy JerseyGirl's story about juggling her man-harem.

Okay -

As many of you know, I was supposed to go out with M.A. on a date.  M.A. is my boyfriend from summer before college and 1st semester in college–we haven't spoken in ten years, and he found me on Facebook. Yesterday was so dreary and I hadn't washed my hair, so around 5 o'clock I said I had to work late and blew off the date. On my way home from work riding the short bus, I started listening to "Burning Up" by Madonna, and I started to get a little excited. So I decided to text M.C. with: "What are you doing tonite?"

No response.

So I send another text:  "Come over"

About 30 seconds later he writes me back telling me that he's at some movie premiere that wont be over till about 10, but he'll come over then.  Sweet...I am so excited.

I chillax, drink a Molson Golden, take a shower, eat some Easy Mac, watch "The Office," drink a couple more MGs, and smoke a little when my phone rings about about 10:01.  It's O.D. It's really noisy in the background and I ask him what's going on. He's at some event, he tells me, and wants to know what I'm doing.  I ask him if this was a booty call and he starts dying laughing. He tells me he really wants to see me, and can he come over?  I say no, I have to get up early for work tomorrow, sorry.  Come meet me out on Friday. He agrees and asks me to send him more dirty pics to his BlackBerry.

About five minutes later my phone rings and it's this guy from college, D.J., who called me randomly 2 weeks ago after not being in touch for three years. We chatted briefly two weeks ago and since then he's called me at least two times. I finally call him back last night, and we start chatting, and he brings up that our mutual friend from college's wedding is this weekend. He then goes:

"That's sort of the reason I was calling, I was wondering what you were up to this weekend, and if maybe you wanted to go with me to the wedding."

Ummmmmmmm, guy, I haven't laid eyes on you in 3 years, are you straight up CRAZY right now?  I respectfully decline, telling him I have my friend's engagement party (which I do), and hurriedly hang up the phone.

About a minute later I get a text from M.C. saying that he's having some stomach issues and might not be able to make it. So, I promptly text O.D. saying "I can't stop thinking about you." He writes back, "Want me to come over?" to which I respond "YES!"  He says, "Okay give me about 30 minutes."

M.C. then calls me to tell me that he really wants to see me, but that he is having stomach issues and it's probably in everyone's best interest if he goes home. At first I'm like "Suuuure, no big deal! Some other time."  As we're chatting, I get a text from O.D. saying, "I'm sorry to say it, but I think I'm too drunk to drive." Way to go, 40-year-old guy. So then I start pouting a little bit on the phone with M.C., trying my damnedest to make him come over.  Alas, his stomach issues are too great. I hang up the phone dejected.

I text O.D. back "Ok wastoid."  He writes back "Send me pictures," to which I write back "um no retard I want to get laid!" to which he responds "your gonna get it all on Friday."  He is the WORST TEXTER EVER , I mean what does that even mean????

I snuggle into bed, lights out, all ready to pleasure myself courtesy of my Sharper Image back massager when my phone starts ringing. It's M.C.

"I've changed my mind … I'm coming over," he tells me.

Double crisis averted!!!  I was about to go to bed alone, and I was also playing with fire by potentially inviting two guys over to my apartment at 11:30pm–not a good sitch at all. What's also not a good sitch at all is that O.D. bought a 12 pack of condoms a couple weeks ago, and we used 2 when we hung out. Now there's only 8 left.  I hope he's not too good at math!!!!

M.C. and I fucked until the break of dawn and I feel ready to conquer the world today.

XOBJBS,
JerseyGirl

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# posted by Razzy @ 1:22 PM 1 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

 

Liveblogging 90210 2.0 or whatevs

I was just going to post my thoughts about last night's premiere episode of "90210" v2.0, which I gathered with my bitches to view at my friend JerseyGirl's house. However, while there, CorporateCard wanted to know why I wasn't "liveblogging" the episode. She works in cable news so she probably wants me to be a citizen reporter or whatever, because my coverage of a bunch of drunk girls watching a trashtastic CW TV show is definitely going to meet a serious need in the world of cable gonzo journalism. After the first scene, in which Ethan, AKA New Dylan McKay, is receiving a BJ from either David Silver/Kelly Taylor's half-sister or a chick who later turns out to be a major druggie, I decided that this wasn't a bad idea, if only to straighten out all the new Niner canon we'd have to absorb. We thought at first the head doctor was the drug chick and were unimpressed with her skills. She doesn't have much endurance in the fellatio department because, according to CorporateCard, "Her name is Poppy Pills. She doesn't have enough strength for blowjobs. She's a pill popper!"

Anyway, with that sort of shit going on, I figured that even if I didn't "liveblog" in the sense of immediately publishing my reportage, I could at least open up my laptop and record some of my thoughts for this morning. I didn't quite love the show as much as JerseyGirl (who announced the close of every commercial break with "OKAY YOU GUYS, QUIEEET, IT'S BACK ON!"), but I have to confess that I was pleasantly surprised by it. It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been for a show that literally rips off the original Niner premise (Midwestern family–Rob "Kyle McBride from 'Melrose Place'" Estes and Lori "Aunt Becky from 'Full House'" Loughlin and their two similarly aged kids–move to Beverly Hills and try to fit in), and even though Rack pointed out that the New Brenda Walsh looks like a cheap Ali Lohan knockoff, the new Jim and Cindy Walsh are too hot for me to care much. JerseyGirl wouldn't stop raving about Rob Estes–or "Grant Show," as he was mistakenly called several times–being "like, the hottest dad EVER."

There were also enough appearances by former Niner characters to keep me watching. Apart from Brenda Walsh and Kelly Taylor returning to the show, Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez (almost-bastard daughter of Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman and her cuckolded baby daddy Jesse Vasquez) is the anchor for the West Beverly TV news station ("Good morning, West Beverly High...and buenos dias") and Erin Silver, daughter of hot pieces Jackie Taylor and Mel Silver, DDS, is a main character. Some of the new characters are also awesome. I love Naomi, the slutty New Kelly Taylor, who looks like Jessie Spano with a dash of slutty-ass Lucinda Williams thrown in, and whose name is so reminiscent of the Elizabeth Berkeley's greatest role, Nomi, from Showgirls that I plan to refer to her as Nomi henceforth. Apparently Nomi is on the outs with Silver after spreading gossip that ruined Mel and Jackie's second marriage (as usual, because Mel Silver couldn't keep it in his pants around his dental hygienist staff). I also love the fact that New Brandon Walsh is black (he's adopted, as the dialogue immediately reveals to prevent any confusion that he may be the fruit of Rob Estes and Lori Loughlin's loins), because it's high time Niner added a little splash of diversity to the main cast. Also, Lucille Bluth from "Arrested Development" plays the washed-up, drunk ex-Skinemax actress of a grandmother, Tabitha. From the moment Tabitha steps onto the scene brandishing "an iced tea before noon...with a little Long Island in it," I know I'm going to love her.

By the next scene, she's dishing out advice on how to get back at lacrosse bullies. "Just grab onto those jewels and twist them, like a garbage bag," says Tabitha about ball-squeezing revenge for the possibly racial targeting of the New Brandon Walsh. Later her computer "freezes up" because she spills scotch on the keyboard and suggests that the lacrosse team terrorize their rivals by unleashing a horde of pigs on their pitch or whatever. When Rob Estes suggests she cut back on the boozing, she responds with a dismissive "oh PISH!"

I also love Erin Silver, who just goes by "Silver" because the name "Erin" is too conformist or something. She runs a blog that specializes in eviscerating her social enemies, and may or may not have been the chick sucking off the New Dylan in the opening scene, which prompted all my girlfriends to shriek, "SHE'S THE RAZZY OF THE SHOW!!!" While I have to admire a cocksucking blogger who smotes her enemies' ruin on the mountainside via the power of the internets, I wish that I was such a success in the blogging game. Silver claims she gets "half a million hits" DAILY on her site. As in 500,000 unique hits per day! I'm excited if I get 2,000...clearly I need to get better at making derogatory viral videos about my schoolmates. Apparently there are a lot of people interested in seeing her dressed as the guy from A Clockwork Orange presenting videos hating on various high school classmates who wrong her. Silver also has an itchy blogging finger. When the New Brenda inadvertantly gets dragged to the Peach Pit After Dark with New Kelly Taylor, Silver immediately makes a scathing Flash animation painting her as a slack-jawed yokel for "dissing me to go hang with the Bratz dolls."

I certainly can relate to Silver when she's confronted about her bloggity scandals by her big sister and West Beverly guidance counselor Kelly Taylor, who says, "What are we gonna do about this blog of yours? It does nothing but cause problems." I've seriously had the same conversation with my parents about a dozen times, after I've said something like, "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but some chick tried to get me raped via Craigslist" or "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but I just got served with a $25,000 defamation suit." Silver responds with, "That's what blogs are supposed to do. Cause problems." Thus far, I can relate to Silver. She's also exactly as hot as the offspring of the incomparable ex-coke snorting hot piece Jackie Taylor and horny oral surgeon Mel Silver should be.

The other teenagers (with the exception of Navid, the New Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman, who looks like some type of literary Criss Angel) are at least intriguing. The drug girl who may or may not be too Viked out to properly fellate the New Dylan is constantly "rollin' hard" (per JerseyGirl) and is constantly in debt to her dealer. She even bursts out in random snatches of druggie song in class and almost gets caught using in class by the New Gil Meyers ("Claim Benadryl," advised CorporateCard sagely). She also apparently is acting in Disney Channel shows to pay her mother's mortgage, but this isn't working out very well because she's usually too fucked up to follow through with her auditions. She's not too fucked up, however, to stand up for Silver's blog-skewering of Nomi (who was publicly humiliated by the New Dylan when he cheated on her) by screaming, "She wasn't rejected, BITCHLIPS!"

The show is not without its problems. As far as the New Brenda and New Brandon are concerned, there's entirely too much sexual tension between brother and sister. They're constantly having their Brenda-Brandon sibling counsels while laying in bed together.

"If you're gonna do it, at least have an Americana quilt underneath," said CorporateCard. "It takes the edge off the incest." There was always some tension between the Original Walshes, but these two new ones make Brenda and Brandon look perfectly tame. At least they're adopted, so if they do screw at some point, their potential offspring won't emerge with a flipper on its head. Then again, Grandma Tabitha just looked at the new Brenda and said, "Look at that ass...you could crack an egg on it." Maybe inappropriate sexual behavior runs in their family.

The new Brenda Walsh is also a whole lot of I don't care. Not only does she look like a misplaced Lohan sister, she shares the Original Brenda's predilection for ill-advised moral freakouts. In fact, at one point Nomi sees her at some party and says, "I didn't expect to see you here, what with all your morals and everything." However, she's no Brenda Walsh in terms of personal style or drama. As CorporateCard wisely noted, "She doesn't have the brains, she doesn't have the bodysuit...NO DEAL!"

In spite of the fact that she's a plain, boring pain in the ass aspiring to dethrone Drug Girl as the queen bee of the West Beverly theaterfag circuit, all the boys seem to like her. New Dylan is vying for her affection with some super-wealthy Bentley-driving douchebag who looks like a cross between Tom Cruise and that guy from "Smallville." Too bad the Original Dylan was a badass who won Brenda's heart by taking nips from airplane bottles of booze and smashing Bel Age Hotel flowerpots in rage. The New Dylan is a lacrosse stud (and since when was FUCKING LACROSSE a popular sport on the West Coast?), and he attempts to woo New Brenda by weaving tales of a mythical five-armed sea creature called a "pentapus." What in the "bitch, please" is that?

The new Gil Meyers also annoys me. He's ten times more interfering and morally self-righteous than the original Gil Meyers, English teacher and faculty advisor of the West Beverly Blaze. He also has already started dating Kelly Taylor after almost bungling it by referring to her four-year-old son as "baggage." Oh yeah, and did I mention Kelly Taylor has a son? I couldn't figure out if her baby daddy is Dylan or Brandon, because while we all thought it was Dylan's, a conversation with Brenda Walsh revealed that Brandon may be somewhat of a deadbeat dad, choosing to live in Belize rather than Beverly Hills with what remains of "the gang." In any event, Kelly Taylor has the little brat wearing CROCS, which is inexcusable, even on a toddler.

Anyway, overall, the new "90210" is hardly the original, but even if it doesn't measure up to the lofty standards set by the greatest show in the history of television, I can still roll with it on Tuesdays. I'd watch it just for Silver's blog-mediated revenge schemes. There was one hilarious number lampooning the public outing of New Dylan cheating on Nomi in which New Dylan says nothing but "I like lacrosse." Silver recognized her own genius.

"I think this may be my best blogisode ever," she notes. At that point JerseyGirl exhorted me to turn on my laptop's webcam and film our own "blogisode," which was a pale imitation of Silver's, to say the least. For one thing, I am no cinematographer, director, or any kind of editor while demonstrating proper blowjob technique on beer bottles via the computer webcam on my lap. For another, I have no idea how to make Flash animations. I could learn a few things from Silver, especially since her skills have netted her HALF A FUCKING MILLION UNIQUE HITS PER DAY!

Anyway, if you're really, really bored, here's our unbelievably shitty "blogisode." Haters can have a field day with my chin:

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:24 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

 

H-90210-LY SHIT!


I've been anticipating this new iteration of the greatest show in the history of television with a healthy measure of skepticism.  Unlike my friend JerseyGirl, who is fervently convinced that this extension of the Bev Niner franchise will recapture all the magic of its sublime predecessor, I think that at best it will be a "meh, I guess it's okay" type of show.  In fact, I think it's even more likely that it's going to totally suck and piss me off.  My little group of Niner aficionados had been planning to resume the cooking classes/excuses to drink that we'd been doing for "I Love New York 2" and "The Hills" a while back, but JerseyGirl is so convinced this new Niner is going to be groundbreaking that she advised our little Niner group in a recent email, "i seriously can't even wait. you guys we are going to have the biggest party EVER on 9.02. everyone plan at being at my house at 7pm. i think maybe we should even just order a pizza because i'm going to have to lend my full attention to the show, as opposed to cooking."

While I plan to comply and show up at 7 with pizza money and a sixer, I have not shared JerseyGirl's optimistic zeal regarding the quality of this show.  However, a recent article interviewing Jennie "Kelly Taylor" Garth and Shannen "Brenda Walsh" Doherty about reprising their historic roles on "90210 2.0" has given me slightly more hope that it will be more intriguing than I expected.
Shannen stated, "All I know is there's a girl giving a guy a blowjob in the first episode."
A WHAT?! This is not the Bev Niner I remember. Sure, the first season of the original Bev Niner wasn't without some scandalous controversy.  There were episodes featuring Jackie Taylor nasally vacuuming up rails the size of a freeway stripe because she "just needs a jump start," Kelly Taylor confessing to being date raped during her freshman year at West Beverly, and Brenda losing her virginity to Dylan at the Spring Dance, but I don't recall anyone performing oral at any point.  In fact, I don't remember a single blowjob throughout the course of the entire decade-long run of the show.  Not even the hottest slut in the original history of the zip code, the inimitable Valerie Malone, ever played anybody's skin whistle while she was busy trolling for conquests at the Peach Pit After Dark.  In fact, the kinkiest thing that ever went down was some light handcuff play that wound up far more comic than sexy (ie: Claire Arnold cuffing herself beneath a protesting Brandon Walsh's "Football: Sports" poster, prompting him to complain that "she's got the body of a centerfold and the personality of a volcano," David Silver begging various cast members swinging by the beach apartment to call a locksmith after attempting to spice up his and the aformentioned Ms. Arnold's sex life with some light impromptu bondage, Steve Sanders confusing law enforcement equipment with Claire's now-infamous sex prop and trapping himself in a hotel room at a police convention).  I guess once Steve Sanders arranged to use the empty Walsh house as a porn set, but that mostly involved some women in lingerie while Steve made a cameo as the pizza guy and demonstrated his knack for the bad Italian "I'm-a make-a you a pizza" accent that once successfully discouraged Emily Valentine's prank calling habit, so that likewise falls under the heading of "hilarious" rather than "risqué."

I'm not going to lie.  I did get excited when I saw these (heavily Photoshopped) pictures, especially the Kelly Taylor "I Will Not Steal My Best Friend's Boyfriend" hot for teacher shot.

However, I'm not convinced that these two slags fighting over Dylan while in their late thirties is going to be nearly as compelling as it was when Kelly was banging Dylan in the Bel Age Hotel pool or Brenda screamed, "Look, I hate you both. Never talk to me again!" I find it hard to believe that, at 35, Brenda will be able to deliver scathing dialogue like "Kelly, if you're trying to lose your bimbo image, I don't think this is going to help." Kelly is a guidance counselor at West Beverly now, so I'm assuming that she somehow managed to lose her bimbo image. In fact, she lost it starting in season 5 of O.G. Niner, when she started dating Brandon Walsh and became almost as morally insufferable as him.

"I am NOT a bimbo, okay?"

"Whatever you say, Kelly. But I was always taught that if it looks like a duck, and walks like a duck..."

"GO TO HELL!"

I guess I'll find out tonight if I Niner 2.0 and its blowjobs can measure up to the above lofty standards for entertaining trash.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:11 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, August 21, 2008

 

I miss Valerie more

I saw today that the CW has released a new promo video for Bev Niner 2.0 today featuring none other than the legendary Shannen "Brenda Walsh" Doherty. This video was expressly designed to get my Brendaphile friends like JerseyGirl and Twathopper hyperventilating with excitement. I can practically hear JerseyGirl all the way across the George Washington Bridge in her Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey office shouting "O! M! G! YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!" True to form, Twathopper just e-mailed me about this informing me that "I think I just had an O at my desk."

In case you are dumb and stupid not a fan of the greatest show in the history of television ("Beverly Hills, 90210"...DUH!), let me explain a little bit about Brenda Walsh. The tempestuous younger (by four minutes) twin sister of the insufferably moral Brandon Walsh, she emigrated to America's most infamous zip code when her accountant father Jim was transferred from Minneapolis and immediately commenced starting a bunch of dramatic shit. Prior to the arrival of the duplicitous uber-slut Valerie Malone in season 5, I was always on Team Kelly Taylor, but I have to appreciate Brenda's ability to create some extremely memorable television moments. Here's a brief summary of her scandals:
Granted, Brenda never faked a pregnancy to extort a married guy out of $100,000 or smoked pot out her window while noting, "God, these people are such a bunch of squares" like Valerie Malone, but she had her moments until she was fired from Bev Niner for being a bitch and her character was exiled to drama school in London. Supposedly, Brenda was off becoming a famous actor, director, and all-around theaterfag. Her excuse for returning to West Beverly High is to direct the high school production of Spring Awakening. Isn't that musical supposed to be about teenagers masturbating and committing suicide? That sounds appropriate for high school students as portrayed by the CW. And I can only imagine the kind of performances an accomplished thespian like Brenda will elicit from her high school proteges. Check out her mastery of the craft as Maggie the Cat in the California University production of Tennessee Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Brilliant!

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# posted by Razzy @ 11:41 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Monday, August 18, 2008

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Bela Karolyi


Name: Béla Károlyi

DOB: September 13, 1942

Occupation: retired Olympic gymsnatchtits coach, NBC analyst, 

Hometown: Cluj-Napoca, Romania

Current residence: Houston, Texas

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: After closet lesbian and frat party pugilist Alicia Sacramone took fourth in the vault, Bob Costas attempted to make a predictable funny about his color commentator: "You might be surprised to hear that Bela Karolyi has an opinion about the judging." "Yes I do!" shouted Bela, who proceeded to rant about how Alicia Sacramone was "ripped off" when her flawed but serviceable vaults scored lower than one of China's vaulting twelve-year-olds who landed on her knees. I was enjoying Bela's typically amusing zealous affront perpetrated by the injustices of the judging system. He declared it "the greatest error of the scoring in this whole thing" and qualified that with a lot of expository language about his emotions delivered in his patented Yoda-meets-Transylvanian minstrel tone. I knew LL Cool Jew, a total Olympics addict, was stuck in an airport and had already suffered from some misinformation (some idiot stranger told her that the Chinese beach volleyball team beat my hot assed girlfriend Misty May-Treanor and texted me in alarm). I texted her about Bela, so that she could at least try to experience his awesomeness for herself.
Bela Karolyi on vault judging: 'a total reep off...my heart is breeking for alicia sacaramonee. How you can do this? I am getting eemotional.'
LL Cool Jew must already have boarded her flight, because she didn't get back to me. However, JerseyGirl texted me out of nowhere instead:
JerseyGirl: Omg behind the scenes of the hills, justin bobby is smokin 
Razzy: Lol. M watchn olympics but will switch over at commercial
JerseyGirl: Lc and heidi come face to face in season 4 in a drunken fight. It looks amazing. Btdubs bela karolyi–daily dude i wanna hit him
Razzy: zomg bela is awesome
JerseyGirl: Hes the hotness
While an intoxicated catfight between Lauren Conrad and Heidi Montag–ESPECIALLY if the dirty and despicable yet hate-fuckably hot Justin Bobby is somehow involved–sounds compelling, I kept watching the Olympics. I care more about listening to Bela Karolyi excoriate the pro-China, age-faking, score-fixing factions in Olympic gymsnatchtits judging than whether or not Heidi and Spencer leaked LC's interminably boring sex tape because LC was generally a bitch of a roommate and fake best friend. Bela Karolyi is indeed awesome, and he's the hotness, and he's basically every other conjurable superlative. 

I don't even care if Bela Karolyi built champion gymnasts in the past with a deft combination of starvation, self-esteem deconstruction, and verbal abuse. I love Bela.  I would consider it an honor, a privilege, and a pleasure to be berated by him.  I'm sad that gymsnatchtit competition is almost over, because I will miss watching him roar nonsensically in either exuberance or rage at Bob Costas about Team USA versus Team China.   Bela doesn't give a fuck, and thinks nothing of call China "arrogant cheaters" or calling the Chinese and Russian judges "inexcusable" and "abominable" on international TV from Beijing, probably while the Olympics thought police hover around dying to pull the plug.  In fact, he peppers excited shouts of "GOOD GIRL!" praising the gymnasts of Team USA with his rants about the Olympic powers that be, all the while waving his hands and shaking his fists like he's making a propaganda speech on behalf of his own local politburo in the People's Republic of Bela Karolyi Awesomeness.

In case you have been living under a rock or you're one of those losers who doesn't watch TV and thus haven't yet witnessed Bela in action, feast your eyes.  He's like a Transylvanian bear on crack with a giant, industrial broom mustache, and he rules harder than Nicolae Ceaucescu back in the days before Bela defected to the good old U.S. of A. 

Bela final
by bsap11

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# posted by Razzy @ 4:18 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Monday, July 28, 2008

 

Daily Douchebag: bar tabs like this


Name: my table's bill Friday night

DOB: July 25, 2008

Occupation: making everybody who had a piece of this seriously consider the extent of their alcoholism

Hometown: our dirty hot waiter's apron at El Rey del Sol

Current residence: the financial ledgers at El Rey del Sol

Douchebaggery:  I'm generally a pretty thirsty bar patron, but every once in a while I drink so much alcohol that I even surprise myself.  Last Friday night was one of those occasions.  My friend JerseyGirl throws these happy hours, primarily because she likes any excuse to make an Evite about getting shitfaced.  At almost all of these events, I get wasted and very frequently laid with one of the horny gentlemen working with JerseyGirl in the trenches of cable news production.  However, at this most recent occasion, JerseyGirl recently broke up with her boyfriend, I've been stressed to the point of almost getting my old poetry notebook out and scrawling out some appalling verse, Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy's mom just passed away, and Twathopper's been lamenting her usual incompetence at lesbianism, so this happy hour could be a "quiet night out" with closer friends.  There weren't as many random cubicle neighbors Evited as usual.

In hindsight, it was probably a mistake not to throw the usual bar-banger, because instead of leaving early to pork some hot swarthy employee of MSNBC or FOX News, I stayed until the finale when the bill arrived, and I was HAMMERED.  I was so drunk that on the way home, I almost fell asleep in the cab, something I've sworn never to do ever since my first year in New York I wound up with a cabdriver who started jerking off on the Henry Hudson where there was no escape for me.  With those kind of guys taking drunk bitches home, there's no way I'm going to get unconscious and trust the driver will wake me at my humble tenement rather than in some abandoned alley in the Bronx where he'll rape me and dump my lifeless body for the Special Victims Unit to find.  I was so drunk that the simple task of staying semi-conscious was a Herculean feat on the way home.  I was really, really drunk.

That's why I was not surprised to recall later that we drank over NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS WORTH OF MARGARITA PITCHERS.  I remember being surprised at the time, and raving about "there is NO WAY we drank that much!  I'm practically sober!" like the truly delusional drunk-ass bitch I was by the time the waiter closed us out.  "NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS?!?  Wait, we didn't REALLY drink that much...did we?"  Okay, well some of that was the tip and tax, and in fairness we ate a paltry $31 worth of nachos, but otherwise we drank probably literally twenty five extraordinarily stiff pitchers of tequila-based cocktails...among a maximum of twenty people, some of whom didn't drink much.  As I estimate that around 15 of us drank margaritas, that means we each had 1.67 pitchers each over the course of around four hours.  Even for boozehounds like us, that is a shitload of well tequila to consume.

It's not surprising that the next day, many of the attendees reported incapacitating hangovers.  I myself was miraculously not clutching the toilet bowl for the next twelve hours (a hangover that in my case seems to be reserved almost exclusively for mixing liquor nights, like when I switch back and forth between scotch, G&Ts, and vodka-Red Bulls).  I was, however, very glad when my afternoon drinking plans were canceled so that I could convalesce and make amends to my own liver, because I still felt like shit.  I need to remember this the next time we hit up a margarita happy hour, or I'm going to be calling Schick Shadel sooner than later.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:27 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Friday, June 27, 2008

 

LESBIANS, START YOUR VAGINAS!

This weekend is Pride, bitches! I'm especially glad Pride is coming up, because there's no better way to put a spring in your step after a dude treats you shabbily than to go bang a hotter chick than he could ever score (excepting self). Pride is the best pickings in the city, because EVERY lesbian worth her Georgia O'Keefe lilies shows up there. Hell, every gay person goes! The last time I was at Pride a couple years back, I totally flirted with some cute chicks, although then I wasn't yet remembering how fun it is to fuck girls, so I didn't take any action. Now, I'm ready to chat up some chicks and hopefully do what my friends refer to as "L'ing P," our shorthand for "licking pussy." Furthermore, it provides an excellent opportunity for Twathopper, my lesbian apprentice, to find a companion for the Teagan and Sara concert she really wants to attend with a date. Twathopper was a little gloomy about her prospects, so in a super-hot, all-girl, three-way Gchat, JerseyGirl and I doubled up to give her some confidence:
JerseyGirl: Twathopper, tegan and sarah are coming to nyc in october
JerseyGirl: maybe you should buy two tickets, proactively so that you can take a solstice with you
JerseyGirl: oh and actually sigur ros is coming to nyc too
Twathopper: i know about both
Razzy: call me when kells is swinging back this way
Razzy: dude jerseygirl, twathopper probs reads all the music ZINES that tell her these things
Twathopper: hahaha lol ZINES
JerseyGirl: twathopper, i think you should definitely buy 2 tix to tegan and sara
Twathopper: hahahaha
Razzy: yeah cereally
JerseyGirl: buy it and then you can take whatever solstice you are dating at the time
Twathopper: F you jerseygirl!
Razzy: the pussy will be eating out of your pants for those tix
Razzy: from now on you're going to get some decent snatch if it kills me
Razzy: we're gonna find you a GF at pride this weekend
Razzy: TRUST
Razzy: get tix to this show
Razzy: and find some hot twat at pride to squire along with you
Twathopper: let's find the ho first
Twathopper: then get the tix
Razzy: well when do the tix go on sale?
Razzy: if we pull a nice tuna out of the tank at pride for you
Razzy: you'll be living together by next week
Razzy: so problem solved
Razzy: i know how you solstae roll
Twathopper: hahahah lol
Razzy: in fact, you should rent the uhaul now
Twathopper: well i hope it's better than what i saw last year
Razzy: what, at pride?
Twathopper: which was a bunch of old dykes on bikes
Twathopper: and butches everywhere
Razzy: dude every queer in the city comes out for pride!
Razzy: see all the normal-looking girls mixed in with all the crusties?
Razzy: THOSE ARE THE NORMAL LESBIANS
JerseyGirl: i cannot wait to hear stories about l'ing p from bitches you met at pride
Twathopper: oh like me walking around
JerseyGirl: :P
JerseyGirl: haha that's the l p icon
Twathopper: what will i be doing then?
Twathopper: talkin to some chick about tori and live music probz
Razzy: talking to some girl about live music
Razzy: LOL
Twathopper: haha omg!
Razzy: well that'll work
Razzy: you're looking for a keeper
JerseyGirl: omg you guys are in solstice sync
Razzy: with the ladies, i'm all catch-and-release
Razzy: you get in the door, twathopz
Razzy: i get in the pants
Razzy: perf
Needless to say, Twathopper's pessimism about her prospects are misguided. However, I can completely understand where her negative energy is coming from. While our previous foray into the lesbian bar scene turned into an escape mission to free me from the clutches of a highly aggressive, Jamba Juice-giftcard toting bulldyke named Blu rather than the sex Twathopper was hoping for, she did manage to finally earn her stripes and L some P. I'm sure she did a great job thanks to my excellent coaching. Now that she's done it once, she wants to do it some more, preferably after listening to some live introspective female singer/songwriters perform their acoustic harmonies.

Unfortunately, apart from her lone evening of drunken passion, Twathopper's track record is not so great. She's dated a host of the most ridiculous bitches ever, although part of the problem is the fact that she dug up these obnoxious broads on Nerve.com. First there was Writersprout, a cupcake-loving open mic aficionado who sublets for fun and writes the world's most infinitely boring blog. Then, there was Sarah Babysits, a girl who babysits for a living and who actually faked a rare bone cancer to poke at Twathopper's soft spot for the sick and wounded. This was after she faked a dog bite to cover up a missed "text date" (shaking my head) due to a Vicodin coma. In response, JerseyGirl got hold of Twathopper's phone and texted back "did the dog eat your homework, too?", and Sarah Babysits was so stupid that she actually thought this was flirtatious. When Twathopper dumped her on account of "you need to focus on recovering from the rare Ewing's sarcoma you have, especially since you're being inexplicably treated for it by a gastroenterologist," Sarah Babysits experienced an almost instantaneous remission of her malignancy. Twathopper finally stopped responding to her texts after that. I can hardly blame her, because after months of talking and texting and processing, the thing these bitches had in common beside being incredibly lame is their seeming unwillingness to go further than second base. Twathopper had to get these hoes completely wasted to even be permitted a stray grasp of a shirt-covered breast.

Finally, there was Superlez, and this bitch is a piece of work. On their first date, within five minutes of sitting down with their drinks Superlez informed Twathopper that she'd "never been penetrated by a man." Then, after interrogating Twathopper on her experience or lack thereof, Superlez condescendingly asked her, "Do you have any questions about the community?" I don't recall appointing Superlez spokesperson for every chick who bangs chicks, and I frankly don't want some sort of vagina snob who obviously looks down her nose at bisexuals acting like the orientation supervisor for the girl-on-girl circuit. Twathopper was like, "What community? Lesbians? No!" Frankly, the only question Twathopper ever had about "the community" was "why don't any of these girls ever have sex?" Furthermore, any future questions could be undoubtedly directed toward one of the horde of Smith College graduates Twathopper rolls with. Then Twathopper mentioned that she has lots of straight friends, so Superlez informed her that "you're going to start resenting your hetero friends and their hetero ideals." Hopefully for JerseyGirl's sake, that prediction won't come true. I guess I'm in the clear since Superlez never cast any warnings about resenting friends for their bisexual ideals. I told Twathopper that she should throw that uppity dyke back to the online dating cesspool she pulled her out of, but as usual, she did not heed my advice.

My anti-Superlez stance softened a little when I learned that Twathopper got some finger action from her, and I figured that while she may be obnoxious, maybe she would at least get my apprentice over the figurative hump. Unfortunately, Superlez then decided their bedroom antics were going to plateau there, because she apparently has fewer lesbian skills than I had at 15. I mean, I wrote some appalling poetry back then, but it only took me about a week or two to graduate to L'ing P once we got the fingerbanging routine down. Instead of progressing sexually, Superlez stalled via completely sexless phone sex which Twathopper described as "telling me how hot I was" and "what she liked about me." I am not at all surprised that is an accurate description of lesbian phone sex. I bet that segued into an incredibly sexy description of all the boobmashing they could do. She also did a lot of sexless dirty talk that Twathopper did not appreciate, such as strange routines involving baby talked references to nursing to precede some breast suckling. GROSS. After all this hassle and for all her talk about being the biggest dyke at the sushi bar, Superlez still never went downtown, so Twathopper finally cut her loose.

However, she did not stop stalking Superlez via social networking sites, and yesterday sent me her MySpace page. Twathopper made me swear to the Goddess that I would not post a link to it (although I DESPERATELY wish I could), so I will just have to describe what to me looked like a bullet safely dodged. After squinting to read anything beyond Superlez's annoying profile wallpaper of a group of lesbians white-water rafting, I noticed that her sole interest was under (of course) music, and seemed to be limited to some Lisa Loeb wannabe named Ingrid Michaelson who Wikipedia describes as an "indie-pop singer/songwriter" and is "most notably" famous for having contributed 6 songs on the "Gray's Anatomy" soundtrack. She also counts Marlee Matlin among her "Top Friends," because like every predictable-ass pushy lesbo, Superlez loves "The L Word." She also probably has a crushing handshake and a collection of Dar Williams CDs. Other than that, Superlez just exhibits about fifty million pictures of either herself looking mysterious, or herself posing in various Brooklyn establishments with her new girlfriend who is CLEARLY a Nerve.com find judging by her mousy hipster appearance. She also seems to think that, despite her butt girlfriend, she's still quite the lothario as evidenced by her continued attempts to IM and text flirtatiously with Twathopper. IF ONLY I could post her picture and proceed to–in the words of Lil' Wayne–cool her ass down if she thinks she's hot shit, because while she isn't bad looking, the sheer volume of ridiculous brooding, contrived self-portraits make her as unattractive as her personality does within five minutes of meeting this silly twat.

Anyway, with such a dismal history of dating, I am pretty sure that Twathopper can't do any worse at Pride this weekend than the prostitutes she's already wasted ample time on. I'm sure we can find a slightly better broad than the extracurricular subletters, cancer fakers, and bossy self-appointed lesbian ambassadors she's been messing with. Surely we can find her some nice, normal Tori Amos fan for her to swap Lilith Fair stories with, commence cohabitation, and celebrate their love with a romantic Teagan and Sara concert.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:12 AM 2 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my friends




Name: LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, and Twathopper

DOB: various times throughout 1981

Occupation: history nerd, cable news producer, PR flunky

Hometown: San Francisco, CA; West Longbranch, NJ; Philadelphia, PA

Current residence: New Orleans, Louisiana and New York, New York

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: The last couple of days I was feeling VERY un-Razzified on account of receiving one of the most personally mean "thanks but no thanks" sentiments in history, and I actually had to do something I rarely do: call my friends for emotional support (as opposed to the normal calling my friends to plan where we are drinking/watching Bev Niner). Usually I'm the one doling out all the moral support and making jokes to add some levity to someone else's personal crisis, but I am very thankful that on the rare occasions I'm feeling acutely down and in total crybaby mode, my friends are more than willing to return the favor at their inconvenience. The other night, JerseyGirl and Twathopper both dropped work obligations to rush up to Harlem and drink some brew dogs with me. Then, after listening to me blubber about my hurt feelings and reminded me how badass I am, encourage me to perform an open mic night rendition of my appalling 15-year-old lezzie poetry.

LL Cool Jew kept me on the phone for awhile, which was very kind of her considering she's fretting deeply because her husband is in civil war-torn and journalist-hating Sri Lanka right now, and because she got into a really awful car accident the day before. LL Cool Jew was so great with the scorned woman vitriol (her response to the guy who hurt my feelings–and more specifically the manner in which he hurt my feelings– was "I WANT HIM DEAD!"), that she actually called BigBagel in Sri Lanka to tell him about it, and when she told him that the "I don't want to go out for drinks within the context of a date because you're a big slut who talks about your abortion" schtick was presented in a "for your own good" sort of way, he responded, "Does this mean I get to tell that guy a few things for his own good?" In addition to rallying her family beneath the Razzy Apologist banner, she was also super sweet. After learning about the falling death and decapitation of my beloved St. Francis of Assisi idol, she promptly went straight on to a bunch of Catholic websites and, after noting that my people have the "trinkets-for-salvation" market cornered, purchased me a replacement.

Even hard-ass bitches like myself have their weak spots. One of mine starts with "A" and rhymes with "gabortion," and to have this brought up in the context it was the other day by a person purporting to be my "friend" was a complete shock to me. I've got a pretty thick skin, but hearing someone say that you are an undesirable person because of how you deal with your life's most significant problems is crushing and horrible. Most of the time, I can say "FUCK YOU, HATER!" and give the offending party a well-deserved douchebagging. On rare circumstances, though, somebody hits a really sensitive nerve, and I turn into a sobbing, self-loathing ball of jelly. Let's face it...I don't think I'm really fooling anyone for too long with the whole "I'm Razzy and you're not, so suck it!" attitude I present to the world. As LL Cool Jew once put it, "You keep all that sweetness so hidden away, but you don't need to feel bad when some of it sneaks out!" Deep down, I'm really just an emotionally vulnerable poetry-writing girl who uses my aggressive, no-bullshit, exceedingly honest demeanor as a shield against being hurt and feeling bad. When someone actually manages to penetrate my fomidable exterior and hits a tender spot, I need strong, loving friends to lean on until I regain my "fuck you" legs. I'm really lucky to have friends like LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, and Twathopper (as well as MillerTime, J-Sexy, HotLawyer, and Morrissey'sHair, who have all been patient enough to listen to me bitch about this situation at one point or another), who care about me and are ready and willing to show me how much when I really need it. Thanks, you guys, for helping me get my Razzification back. I love you and you are the best.

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# posted by Razzy @ 4:30 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, June 26, 2008

 

THE most embarrassing thing that I've ever done

Yesterday, I had one of the most upsetting instant message conversations of all time. To make a long and completely unnecessary story very short, I got a "no thanks, I'm not interested in you" in the form of talk about how my public discussion of my abortion makes this dude think I'm a totally unattractive and unlovable freak, and an itemized list of obvious problems with myself that this dude wanted no part of. Basically, it was the cruelest, most humiliating way of hearing "let's just be friends" of all time, and I was in a tremendously bad state afterwards. Don't get me wrong, I've certainly been in the position where a dude just wasn't feeling me, and sure, that makes you feel bad for about a week. Your ego is wounded and that sucks, but you get over it much sooner than later, and big fucking deal. It happens, and (especially when you're a narcissist like me) you get over it. However, I've never received a comprehensive summary of the human flaws I am most sensitive about as a means of saying "I'm just not feeling a re-do of the date we had almost a year ago." All I could do while discussing this–over IM–was try to save face and seem like I was merely embarrassed rather than profoundly hurt that this person actually thought that by telling me all about EVERYTHING that is wrong with me (to the point of quoting comments on this very blog saying that I'm too much of a slut to ever find a man who isn't a freak and then adding that such commenters "have my back") would be a kindness.

While this was actually pretty awful, I naturally acted like it was no big deal, and then called my friends in tears. The reason I talk about my abortion the way I do is because it is so unbelievably painful and difficult for me to deal with that the only way I know how to cope with it is to minimize its destructive power by making flippant jokes. Horrible things lose some of their sting when you can make fun of them. Being incredibly hurt by hearing that my sole coping mechanism for dealing with the worst thing that I've ever done is at the top of the list of reasons why I'm an undesirable freak is at least something that my friends can make fun of and thus help me deal with.
A couple of my friends came to my apartment to drink beers with me and discuss how awesome I am and how, while bringing up the fact that I talk about my abortion as a negative I somehow needed to hear about might be one of the coldest things they've ever heard of, we've all put ourselves out there and gotten burned BAD. Sometimes, this burning is in the stupidest, most humiliating, most vulnerability-exploiting way, and what can you do besides try to laugh about that? Everyone was talking about the most embarrassing thing they've ever done in these situations, and who had the most predictable bullshit embarrassing bad dating moves ever? Go figure...that was strictly in the realm of lesbian stories.

Twathopper said something like, "At least you actually slept with this fuck once. And at least you didn't go give some bitch who wouldn't even fuck you their inaugural article in Runner's World framed as a gift!"

While that IS pretty lame, in fairness, Twathopper was putting up with six months of extreme mindfuckery, and she was new to the clam bake. Novice lesbians always do stupid shit like that, and I know from experience. This actually made Twathopper seem sane and normal, because memories of my incredibly annoying high school poetry-writing lesbian phase flooded in, and I was like, "I think I've actually done something even more embarrassing than that. Holy shit, I think I actually have some poetry."

I have a box of crap from yesteryear containing a bunch of random photographs and letters and that kind of thing. One of these random items was a poem I wrote on September 13, 1994 per the date stamp. "I think that myself at age 14 almost 15 was even worse," I said. It's true; I was the most RIDICULOUSLY UNCOOL, TOTALLY INSANE teenage lesbian at a Jesuit high school ever. There is nothing that will drive a highly cognitive, sexually confused pubescent girl nuts like a hefty dose of Catholic guilt and hormone-clouded thoughts of unrequited love. Poetry writing was the least of my problems. I actually did some light stalking, long letter-writing, and truck-egging (and how crazy teenage lesbian is that?) after my ex-girlfriend dumped me for this other girl in our class because she was the sole BDOC (big dyke on campus) in our high school and she basically could. Trust that I realized fifteen years ago how batshit crazy that sort of behavior is over someone not worth that much effort.

Anyway, I realized that even hearing that someone is not attracted to me because of how I've dealt with my most traumatic experience ever is nothing in terms of embarrassment when it comes to how I dealt with my high school lezzie drama. The poem I wrote is absolute proof, and it was actually educational, as I realized when I wrote this, I was still 14 and had obviously grown enamored with fucking my girlfriend. I swear it was when I was fifteen, and I remember the exact date (July 26, 1995) that I lost my virginity to a dude, but apparently I was hitting pussy when I was just 14 according to the date on the poem (*and OOPS, I was born November 17, 1978, so I was totally 15 when this was written...I just obviously suck hard at math, but I'm leaving it). That would be a lot more sexually precocious in an awesome way if it weren't for the UNBELIEVABLY LAME POETRY I WROTE! I couldn't even read this whole thing to my friends because I was so ashamed of it, and I'm certainly not printing the entire thing here now. I am probably more ashamed of this than ANYTHING I've ever done, and strictly because it's the most cloying, awful, totally pathetic teenage lesbian thing I've ever read. Here are some of the excerpts I can actually tolerate releasing to the internets-reading public, and...well, just uff da. UFF DA!

The window is cracked to our naked skin
And we would be cold but for the
Heat of the other woman's flesh.
The blankets, smell of old cigarettes, the keys
Why she loves me.

I mean, SERIOUSLY?!?! I WROTE THIS?!?!?! If I didn't know how incredibly psychotic and overwhelmingly lame I was as an insane faux-suicidal lesbian teenager, I wouldn't believe it myself. And it gets worse.

The act of marriage, sacred and unholy still
With another woman it is just dirt
White dirt and I know God is getting off
On it, that love I feel when her
Skin is plastered to mine with the
Exertion of what she gives for me

I may have had some sick Catholic issues and been in the midst of a sexuality crisis, but on the bright side, at least I was having apparently extremely hot lesbian sex (and by that, I mean mostly boobmashing with a sprinkle of clumsy fingerbanging and labia kissing). "Skin plastered to mine" and "Exertion of what she gives for me"? That sounds to me like some seriously sexy girl-on-girl, but this was obviously spoken by someone who was having sex for the first time. Now that I've had a considerable amount of experience on top of that, I recall that this bitch had no tits, and was constantly complaining that I wasn't hitting the right spot. Give me a break, I didn't even discover my own G-spot until I started fucking boys, and that was totally by accident. At least she apparently got the job done for me. ANYWAY! Back to the horrendous poetry. It really does make me feel better to take the worst times of my life and rag on them hard. How can I really take stuff like this seriously? I certainly cannot take it with the life-or-death gravity as I did when I wrote it.

And masked bitter envy in a cloak of
False and prefabricated guilt.
This is the tree of life up here
Hidden in the outdated closets and faded curtains
Swept back so we can gaze together
Out of the bright picture window and
Watch the light play pretty shapes on
Flattened stomachs, bare golden backs
Red-spotted breasts and long yellow hair.
God, she's so pretty.

Okay, now I am sufficiently embarrassed by this TOTAL doggerel (and yes, I know this particular poem doesn't rhyme and thus technically doesn't qualify as "doggerel," but I can't think of a better word that means "shitty fucking poetry") that I can't continue with the excerpts. This is truly the most horrifyingly shameful thing I've ever committed to paper, and while I'm mortified that I brought this into the world at all, I'm glad that I did for personal self-esteem reasons. From now on, every time I make some incredibly dumbass girl move and get emotionally bitch-slapped for it, I can just pick my original copy of "Forbidden" out of my "old shit" box and remind myself how much crazier I was fifteen years ago, and how I'm SO much better than all of that now. Lord knows my sex life with the ladies these days is a hell of a lot more Strap it On 5 than "God, she's so pretty," and there's certainly nothing I can do or say to any of my sexual partners that's crazier or more horribly shameful than what I wrote in 1994.

In the midst of an extremely hearty laugh, JerseyGirl was like, "Razzy, that poem really is cereally one of the most straight-up renarded things I've ever heard." Truly. And when things like this come up, where I am faced with the consequences of writing extremely personal, touchy things on the internets and having somebody misinterpret the kind of human being I am at my deep expense as a result, I can always rely on the fact that no matter what I do as an adult trying to deal with the complicated issues of life the best way I can, I'm never going to be as "cereally renarded" as I was when I was 14. And actually, that is greatly comforting. It's a huge relief to know that the lamest thing I've ever done has nothing to do with heavy shit like how I deal with my abortion and how other people respond to it. For the first time ever...thank you, inner poetry-writing retarded-ass lesbian. Thank you so fucking much.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:29 AM 5 Comments Links to this post

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